I ran, and I could hear her pounding footsteps right behind me. It was a losing game, and I knew it. I wouldn’t be able to win a race against a sleeping hippopotamus, let alone little Peg Singer, or Sarah Margaret Beeman, whoever…. I ripped the purse off my shoulder and threw it back behind me, not bothering to look.
She let out a loud yell and there was a crash.
I dared to look back, and sure enough, she’d fallen, though I wasn’t certain if it was due to getting tangled in the purse straps or simply hitting a patch of ice. Not that it mattered. No sooner had I glanced than she was getting back up. Peg started toward me, but her bat had skated away.
The tables had turned. I couldn’t outrun her, but I could squash that little pixie like a bug.
She took two steps, paused, maybe seeing the expression in my eyes, and then darted back for the baseball bat.
And with that, it was back to running.
Thanks to the few yards she had to go to retrieve the bat, I made it through the trails, over the bridge, and into the car. Once more I was glad to have my burnt-orange little Mini Cooper. As long as the key was on me, which thankfully hadn’t fallen out of the pocket of my broomstick skirt, the car automatically unlocked, and I pulled open the door, scaring Watson half to death. I hit Lock and slammed my foot on the brake to start the ignition.
A loud crash against the driver-side window caused both Watson and I to scream. The glass cracked in a myriad of spiderwebs, but didn’t break fully. One more hit and it would. I shoved the gear in Reverse and hit the gas. As we pulled past her, Peg swung the bat again, managing to take out a headlight.
As soon as we were clear, I shifted into Drive and stomped on the gas again. I spared a glance in the rearview mirror. To my surprise, I didn’t see her.
Just as I reached the end of the parking lot and started to turn onto the street, there was a loud rumble, and a huge four-by-four truck backed out between the cars.
I didn’t wait to make sure. Flooring it, I zoomed onto the street, and within half a block reached the main intersection of downtown. Another glance in my rearview revealed Peg pulling out of the parking lot, her truck’s rear tires fishtailing. Hitting the gas again, I took a right turn at the lights, praying no tourists were jaywalking and about to get plowed down. Luck was on our side.
For one crazy second, I couldn’t think where to go, then for an even crazier one, I decided to go to my house.
Watson whimpered in the passenger seat, and I spared him a glance. “It’s okay, buddy. It really is. It going to be okay.”
Lies, lies, lies. Of all the injustices I’d done to Watson that morning, this was the only true one.
And then the obvious hit me. The police station. I didn’t care if Susan Green was there or not. It could be filled with fifteen billion Susan Greens, and it would still be the place to go. Now I simply needed to outmaneuver a huge four-by-four truck.
No problem. Running, I couldn’t do. Drive like I was a stunt double in The Italian Job? Piece of cake.
Thankfully the police station was less than half a mile away, so I wouldn’t have to truly test my skills for too long. I tore through the next intersection, running a red light, but it was early enough in the day that there were no cars or pedestrians in the way.
My phone rang, lighting up the center display of the Mini Cooper. Announcing Branson Wexler was calling.
Men had the best timing.
I hit Accept on the steering wheel as I whipped around a spot of ice glistening in the sunlight.
“Fred. I’m so sorry. I just saw your messages. What—”
“Shut up!” I was aware of my screaming, and I was also aware that there was no other way I could do it right then. Poor Watson was howling in the passenger seat. “I’m bringing Peg into the station, right now. She’s the killer, I think. At least she’s trying to kill me.”
“What are you—”
“I said shut up!” I could see the police station now, coming up on the left. “I’m almost there. If you’re in there, come outside. If not, call them and let them know I’m coming.” What a ridiculous thing to say. Like I was going to wait on Branson to come get me from the car, or that he’d have time to call if he wasn’t there before I came peeling in.
Peg’s engine roared behind us. I spared another glance and saw the massive chrome of her grill growing larger. Another ten seconds and she’d plow right over us.
“Fred, slow down. You’re not making—”
“Shut up!” Without a moment to spare, we reached the turnoff to the police station. I cranked the wheel to the left, and was airborne for a second as I hit the curb. Watson let out another loud, mournful howl.
Although probably stupid, I spared a second glance, and saw Peg’s truck zoom by, then noticed her making a similar motion on the steering wheel, and the truck began to turn, once again fishtailing and nearly going out of control.
I slammed the car into Park right in front of the police station doors, managing to dart my hand out just in time to keep Watson seated, then scooped him up, grabbed the glove, and darted from my car.
Branson was saying something over the speakers.
Watson was so frazzled, he didn’t even resist.
“Help!” I burst through the front doors of the police station, scaring the officer at the front desk, judging from the cup of coffee that went flying. “She’s trying to kill us.”
Just as I reached the desk, I turned around in time to see Peg’s truck fly past the police station.
I pointed after her and looked over at the wide-eyed officer. “You’re probably going to wanna chase her down.”
“Merry Christmas Eve Eve.” Branson held up his glass of wine between us and waited patiently for the awkwardly long amount of time it took me to realize I needed to raise my own glass in cheers.
“Merry Christmas Eve Eve.” I clinked our glasses together, and then we both took a sip. I wasn’t a wine connoisseur, but this was better than any I’d had before, full of earthiness and spice. A perfect holiday wine. Considering it was about three hundred a bottle, it should have tasted like gold. It wasn’t that good.
Branson set his wineglass down, interlaced his fingers, and propped his elbows on the tabletop. “You seem distracted, everything okay?”
I knew the correct answer was Yes, I am fine, just a little flustered from Watson and I nearly being run over earlier that morning. Instead I was honest. “I feel a little out of place. I’ve driven by here several times, and judging from the outside and the name, I never would’ve guessed it was so fancy in here.” The candlelit interior of shiny dark wood and brushed steel reminded me of some of the more exclusive restaurants on the Plaza.
“Well, I will admit that the name Pasta Thyme doesn’t overly evoke a fine-dining expectation.” His gaze traveled over me. Not uncomfortably, but only heightening my lack of preparation and appearance. “Trust me, Fred, you’re the furthest thing from out of place. You look beautiful.”
No, I didn’t. The one thing I had going for me was Percival’s lessons about dramatic cat eye and a subtle lip gloss. Other than that, I looked like I did every other day. Tangerine peasant blouse, faded turquoise broomstick skirt, and white cowboy boots. At least the boots had silver tips on the toes to match my dangling silver earrings. Thank goodness, I’d managed to actually put on earrings again. I hadn’t even done anything with my hair, just left it flowing free, though I was fairly certain I combed it.
Branson, on the other hand, was the epitome of beauty. He could’ve stepped out of any movie from the fifties. I was on a date with Rock Hudson in a classic black suit, cranberry shirt, and an emerald-green tie. A Rock Hudson, who was evidently truly interested in me and not secretly wondering if I had a brother at home.
No, not a date. After wrapping up with Peggy that afternoon, Branson had called and suggested we get dinner and he’d fill me in on how everything had worked out.
A tuxedoed waiter appeared from thin air with some silver scraper thing and d
usted breadcrumbs from the tablecloth around my plate. He didn’t have to do that for Branson—none of his crumbs had made a run for it.
Tuxedoed waiter.
Suit-clad Rock Hudson.
In the center of the table was a small yet lavish bouquet of a solitary poinsettia bloom in the midst of sprigs of holy and silver sticks.
Yeah, date. Whether I wanted it to be that or not.
I couldn’t bring myself to respond to the ‘me looking beautiful’ comment, so I turned things to where I was the most comfortable. “So, she admitted it? Peg was the one who actually killed Declan?”
“She did.” If Branson was disappointed in the shift of the conversation, he didn’t let on.
“She admitted to both? Attacking him at the toy store and at the hospital?”
“Sure did.”
“Huh.” Ridiculously, disappointment flitted through me. I hated being wrong.
Apparently my emotions were on my sleeve, and Branson chuckled. “You thought it was her husband?”
“I did. I thought he found out about their affair. And I couldn’t imagine little Peg being able or strong enough to hurt Declan to begin with.” Thoughts of my poor beat-up Mini Cooper flashed through my mind, causing me to let out a chuckle. “Although, now I understand how she was able to get all those softball trophies. She’s got quite an arm.”
“That she does.” Branson took another sip of wine. “I’m actually surprised that poor wooden nutcracker was in one piece from how hard she can swing. It was no wonder Declan was in a coma.”
That part had been bugging me all day. “So why the garland? If she’d already hit him, why stop?”
He tilted his glass of wine toward me. “You’ve got a sharp mind, Fred. You really do. I asked her that myself. She wasn’t able to give an answer. I don’t think even she understood it. But my guess is our little Peg Singer, or Sarah Margaret Beeman, doesn’t really have the heart of a killer. Hitting someone once is one thing, bashing them repeatedly is another. And though I’m sure she didn’t account for that garland to end up so bloodied, using it to strangle is a little less visceral than beating her lover to death. As for what she did at the hospital? She could’ve smothered him with a pillow, but putting air in his line, she didn’t even have to touch him.”
It made sense. Although she seemed more than willing to bash me to death with that baseball bat. Then again, she and I hadn’t been having an affair.
The waiter returned and refilled my glass of wine. I hadn’t realized I’d drank it so fast. It went down smoothly, too smoothly, and I was nervous, not a good combo. I started to take another sip and then pushed it away. I didn’t drink very often, which meant I was a lightweight, and I was going to stay in control on this date, or whatever it was.
Somehow the emerald of Branson’s tie caused the green of his eyes to nearly glow.
I pushed the wine a little farther away. “And Joe didn’t know?”
For the first time, Branson winced. “That was the hardest part of the day. I’ll admit, it’s difficult to see a man like Joe, one so big and strong, completely break. He was devastated. He didn’t know about the affair. Not a good Christmas for him. Discovering his wife had been cheating and that he was married to a murderer all in one fell swoop.”
I hadn’t even considered that. And I’d thought discovering Garrett’s affair and ending our marriage had been bad. At least he hadn’t been a murderer or a dirty cop.
I’d have to go check on Joe. Let him know…. Let him know what? That was a stupid impulse. I was certain I would be the last person he’d want to see. “Did she explain why she killed Declan? Why she attacked him to begin with? I can’t understand.”
Another wince. “Peg remained steadfast for over an hour in her interview. Wouldn’t admit to anything. Then I brought Joe in. Everything fell apart in that moment, for both of them. And fell into place for me.” He leveled his gaze on mine. “Affair aside, she loved her husband. She really did. The minute he broke, so did she. And if I had any doubts left about her being able to kill Declan, her fury at him, even still, would have convinced me.” He paused as the waiter returned to refill our waters. “She’d tried to end their affair. But Declan wouldn’t have it. He was convinced she was going to leave Joe, which, I think had been the original plan, though Peg never fully admitted to that part. That’s why Declan was going to leave Daphne. He truly believed he and Peg were going to be together. It seems he was almost delusional about it. That’s why he’d done the documents in her maiden name. He was that certain she was leaving Joe. When Peg got the updated version of Declan’s will, it was the last straw. It sent her into some sort of rage.”
Horror washed over me. “That’s what did it? Her reading the will?”
Branson nodded, his gaze concerned. “Yes. Why?”
I took a steadying breath and gripped the edge of the table. “I think I’m the one who gave her that. A couple of letters had been misdelivered to me. It seems that happens all the time. Both of them were from a Denver law firm.”
Branson reached across the table, placed his hand over mine, and gave a gentle squeeze. “None of this is your fault, Fred. You just returned the letter to where it was sent.”
I realized that of course, but still, it was like I’d placed the nutcracker in Peg’s hand.
The waiter arrived, sliding our plates of food in front of us, then grating fresh Parmesan over the tops.
I glowered at my plate of creamy sausage tagliatelle. The dish had been thirty dollars, and the portion was roughly half the size of a bowl of spaghetti anywhere else.
“You’re going to die when you taste this.” Branson smiled at me, then plunged his fork into one of his gnocchi. Thankfully he hadn’t seemed to notice my reaction.
Following suit, I skewered a thick noodle and swirled it, then took a bite. I shuddered, literally. I glanced down at my plate in shock, then back up at Branson.
“Told you.” His grin turned wicked. “All the pasta is housemade. I’m only going to take you to the best places, Fred.”
I was speechless, both to his statement and in the pure divine that was happening in my mouth. The wine was most definitely not worth three hundred dollars, but I would’ve paid thirty dollars a bite, if need be, to experience the pasta again.
Both because I couldn’t think of a response to his claim and being completely overwhelmed by flavor, I made some sort of awkward sound of agreement and took another bite. It was just as good as the first.
The next several minutes were lost to the pleasure of food and the discovery of their garlic bread, also housemade, rivaling the pasta. Gradually, thoughts of Peg began to tumble over the exquisiteness of the meal and my nerves around Branson.
“I think the only other thing I don’t understand is the glove. Why in the world would she be so careless just to toss it by the dumpster in the alley outside her store?”
Branson chewed a few more seconds, swallowed, then wiped his mouth, though it hadn’t seemed to need it. “Katie truly did interrupt her. Peg dashed out the back of the toy store, tossed the glove, and hurried into the T-shirt shop, just in case whoever had interrupted her came into her store to get help. It would’ve been a fairly perfect alibi.” He shrugged and gave an almost sympathetic wince. “But Peg said she went back to find it and couldn’t. Finally decided an animal had carried it off. Personally, that’s the one part of the story I don’t understand. If it were me, I would’ve torn that place apart. There’s no way I would’ve missed finding those gloves.” He shrugged again, just one shoulder that time. “Although, we tore it apart this afternoon, and we never found the second one.”
Despite the situation, I laughed a little. “I can see that. I don’t know how many times I’ve lost my keys or my cell phone, and nearly destroyed the house in the search only to find them in the exact place I’d looked countless times before.”
“Maybe so, but your keys or cell phone couldn’t help prove that you’d murdered someone.”
“True.” I really could understand that happening. “Just more proof that I shouldn’t go around killing people. Something like that would totally happen to me.”
Branson snorted, and somehow made the garish noise sound classy. “Really? You have a hit list going that I should know about?”
I shook my head, though Officer Green flitted through my mind. As did my ex-husband and my ex-best friend turned ex-business partner. No, those two flitted away instantly. It was thanks to them that I’d made the choices I did and ended up in Estes Park, and I was grateful for that. It took a little more effort to erase Susan’s name from the list, however. “No. I don’t commit murders. I just solve them.” I couldn’t help myself.
Branson didn’t laugh. If anything, I could’ve sworn his gaze grew a little heated. “That you do, Winifred Page. That you do.”
I plunged my fork back to the plate, ready to twirl around more noodles, only to discover it was empty. Branson must’ve seen the disappointment over my face as he laughed. I grinned up at him sheepishly. “Don’t you hate it when you don’t realize that you’re done and go for that last, delicious bite only to discover you’ve already had it?”
He winked. “Their portions aren’t exactly huge. We can order a second round.”
Santa help me, but I almost said yes. Then remembered I had some pride. “No, that portion was perfect.”
Branson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re aware I can tell when you lie to me, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He took his final bite, chewed, swallowed, and then needlessly wiped his mouth again. “Dessert, then. They’re simple and unfussy, but their tiramisu and cannoli are the best I’ve ever had.”
I could only imagine the price tag on those, and I felt the sting of guilt at realizing how much Branson was going to pay for a night he considered a date and one that I was unwilling to label. But the best tiramisu and cannoli he’d ever had? I couldn’t say no to that. And as guilty as I felt about leaving Watson at home, without him here, I wouldn’t have to share.
Traitorous Toys (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 2) Page 15